Breaking Ties (6 page)

“I won't.”

He tucks it in my shirt pocket. “
Won't
is short for
will not
, and that's an absolute. You know what Fate loves to do with those.” He gets up from the curb and whistles sharply, a taxi pulls up to him, and he hands the driver, a woman, a couple of bills, telling her, “Take him wherever he wants, keep the change.” He walks out of my view after that, and when I stand up to look around, he's gone.

I consider tossing the number aside, but he had to go and make a point. Chances are I'll need that number for some reason, and if anything, I can always send it to my friend Bank to have a little fun with. I get in the taxi and lean back against the seat when the driver pulls into traffic.

“So where to?”

I do need to get started, and if I'm going to worm my way into the internal affairs of the Fae, there's only one person I can think of to give me information and an in.

“Grunstadt, Emerald Towers.” I sigh. “This is going to be awkward.”

The driver smiles in the rearview. “That looked like your father there, you seeing your mom?”

“Worse. Her ex.” I rub my temples. “And mine.”

Chapter Six

James

December 19, 11:30 am

Days like today I'm grateful for a few things, the first and foremost being that the Grunstadt Public Library has a couple librarians who smoke. As a result, the door on the roof is wedged open most of the time when they need to pop out for a cigarette without judgment from the passersby in front of the building. I'm also rather grateful that when I turn back into a human, my clothes are still on.

Sure, I could probably transmute a few books from the stacks into a T-shirt and jeans, but Cale, my first mentor and second boyfriend (as well as a bibliophile), would definitely take issue. Besides, coming down from the roof means I can drop by my study carrel and pick up a few notebooks to work on while I'm on the clock.

Technically, I'm an aide, as you need a college degree or two to be an actual librarian, but you don't need training to do returns or work the checkout desk. Seeing as my shift is during the day, while school's in session, it leaves me a lot of time to read. In my opinion, it's a much better job than washing dishes, and Spencer was able to get James Black on the grid enough to make it feasible for me to work. Apparently in the course of the world forgetting Miles Canmore ever existed, it forgot to assign his Social Security number to someone else.

One of the issues I've been dealing with over the last few months is the fact that I have no one to teach me about magic, so instead of moping about it, I decided to take advantage of having a boyfriend who has a working knowledge of enchantment and had him scribble down some notes for me to study. It's in Sigil, and a funky dialect of it at that, so simply deciphering a page is more often than not an all-day job. I asked him if he could translate it to English, but Sigil just doesn't work that way. Reading isn't the issue,
speaking
it is, and the phonetics of Sigil don't really translate.

Just once it'd be nice if the language of magic cooperated. I gave it its new name, damn it.

Still, I'm a sorcerer, working at a library, who gets to spend his days studying magic. I think I'll take the win.

“You fly like a dropped egg.”

When I look up, the blue-haired girl is standing in front of the desk. Her arms are folded smugly, the gunslinger's belt still slung around her waist, though the revolver isn't there. Her tone, understandably, is unimpressed. “Even a drake of the
actual
Snow Clan flies better than that.”

I only glance up at her before returning my attention to my work. Ozzie's notes on the right, my notes in the center and tallies for patron traffic to the left. I do my job.

“Unless you're here to apply for a library card, would you mind not hovering? If you really want to be my protector, you should know I prefer my protection to not be obvious.” I meet her eyes. “Or condescending. Besides, I got here over an hour ago.”

“I'm simply stating that if you wish to make the most of the draconic form, you should consider lessons in flight. Or, at the very least, more practice. If you could fly properly I would not have been waiting an hour for
you
to arrive.” She leans against the desk in a way that would probably draw my attention if I were straight. “The council is of the opinion that you are too…distracted of late. Such distractions lead to foolish mistakes.”

I sigh audibly. “This ought to be good. What exactly am I supposed to call you anyway?”

“Coda.”

I shrug. “Better than Fluffy, I guess.” She snerks in response to that, and I'll admit I grin. “Heard about that, huh?”

“Indeed. It was…creative. He hasn't attended court in his lesser form since, for fear of being addressed as such. The Ra'saar refused to allow him to change it, as punishment both for his foolishness and for denying the honor of being named by a Keth. Among the younger, it was a source of great amusement.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Do you really talk like this?”

“Keth do not, by reputation, wish to be conversed with in a casual fashion.” She peers over the desk at the notes. “You are studying the dialect of the
dreamblood
?” A snort issues from her with a little bit of static crackling in the air.

“I take it that dragon-Fae relations aren't on steady ground?”

“They fancy themselves great hunters and us great trophies, and they cry foul when we prove them wrong.” She grits her teeth openly. “That the Ra'keth would…cavort with one of them…”

I point toward the main entrance. “You can leave now, Coda.” She starts to protest, but I shush her quickly. “I'm trying to work. Please leave.”

She moves away, at least, to the far end of the entranceway where I'm still in her line of sight. Points for her.

An hour passes with limited interruption, a few checkouts, renewals, no overdue books. Since my Mark creeps people out, the book drop has become far more popular, but it gives me time to study. My Mark is the white streak in my hair, but it's what sets me apart from the rest of humanity, marks me as a sorcerer. People see it and simply
know
that something's off about me. Generally, they tend to see me as an asshole.

“Beg your pardon, but would you be James?” The voice has an unmistakable Irish accent. When I look up, I see a man in his early thirties with black hair tinged with gray, groomed beard, dark eyes, well-tanned skin. He's dressed in a simple charcoal button-down shirt and slacks, and possesses an almost noble air about him. For some reason he's familiar.

“You checking out?”

He leans over the desk, inspecting me. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

I roll my eyes. “One, you're too old for me. Two, I'm dating someone. Three…” I focus on his face, and it finally clicks. “There is no way in hell I'm doing a Phouk.”

He chuffs at that and folds his arms. “And why might you possess a low opinion of such a noble clan?”

I smile to myself. “From my experience, Phouka are braggarts who claim honor but never keep their promises.”

“
From your
—” he begins to bellow, but I shush him and point to the
QUIET, PLEASE
sign to my left. He fumes a moment and gathers himself. “From your
experience
, young master? What manner of so-called Phouk saw fit to sully my clan's reputation?”

I don't make eye contact. “A braggart who claimed to be the Riordan. He swore he'd tell me a story I'd remember until my final breath. In fact, he swore to me three times. And the Fae have to do anything they promise three times.”

The Phouk sags. “It would be you, wouldn't it?” He smiles then. “But I still didn't say
when
I would tell you that story.”

“Seeing as I've already died once, I could claim you didn't fulfill your oath.” I shrug. “But I really don't want to be a dick, so would you just say whatever you came to say so I can get back to work?”

“Gladly. I simply wished to introduce myself. I am the King of the Phouka and Her Majesty's Riordan, though you may call me Robert O'Rourke. You would be James Black of the Argent City, the Lightning Rod?”

Not as formal as the dragons put it, but at least he got it out in one breath. “That's it? Just an introduction?” I have to smirk as I look up at him, make eye contact. “You're a trickster. You're here to tell me that it'll be your clan that gets me, not the Coyotes, not the Foxes, but you guys. Am I wrong?”

He laughs good-naturedly, but it fades as he appraises my face more intently. “James Black isn't your real name, is it?” I give him a dubious look in reply, and he gets the message. My real name is Miles Canmore, but as far as I'm concerned, I've been James Black since I left Heath. Miles died so I could live, simple as that, but I'm not about to share that information with anyone. “The day we met, young master, out in the fields, whose fields were they?” He snaps his fingers. “The Sullivans, correct?”

My mother's maiden name.

“Yeah, but I remember you saying they were your old stomping grounds, because it was your day.” Thanks to the Usurper invading my head six months ago, I have a pretty vivid recollection of meeting Mr. O'Rourke. “You also said they were your old stomping grounds, if I'm correct.”

He nods solemnly. “So they were.” Appearing hesitant, he leans in, lowering his voice. “The Sullivans, you would be of their brood?” His face softens. “I only ask the truth, I care little for your name before you took the throne.”

Honestly, I'm relieved enough that he doesn't want my real name, so I figure a minor truth would be enough. “It's where my mother grew up, it's her family's estate.”

The Phouk closes his eyes a couple of seconds, taking that in. When he opens them, he inspects my face and nods once. “Yes, I can see it now.” He then bows in a most elegant fashion and nods curtly. “The Clan of the Phouka will never darken your doorstep, young master, on this you have my vow. Should you ever require our aid, you need only ask.” With that, he turns swiftly on his heels and proceeds toward the door, bringing my hopeful bodyguard back into view, who discreetly conceals a firearm once it's clear the elder Phouk presents no threat to me.

“Okay, what the hell was that all about?” I say to no one in particular. I mean, I don't mind a trickster telling me he's not going to trick me, especially the kind of trickster that's bound to never tell a lie, and, hey, it's always nice to know you've got backup when you need it. Allies seem to be in short supply, but I will admit that I'm rather curious what changed his mind. He came in far too full of swagger to just tell me that he's not going to trick me, and I doubt it has anything to do with him owing me a story.

Why would it matter if I was visiting my grandparents on that day so long ago? What? If I'd just found my way there from some other property, would he have told me to prepare myself for all the Fae bullshit he could throw at me?

I'm also wondering how he found me, and I know that his last name is familiar for some reason, but it's not from before I became a sorcerer. I just can't quite put my finger on it. He's a trickster, so maybe Spencer knows…

Oh. Right. That's the guy Spencer was screwing.

Coda finds her way over in a nonchalant fashion and leans against the desk. “What was that about?”

I return my attention to my notebooks. “So you can tell the council all about it? I'm not stupid, okay? You're not here to protect me, you're here to keep an eye on me and see if I do anything juicy you can report to the Razor.”

“
Ra'saar
.” She grits her teeth. “How'd you know?”

“I read a lot of fantasy novels. You guys aren't presented well there. In the ones where you're more than slavering beasts who nap on a pile of stock options, you're all conniving and manipulative. I figure the stereotype has to come from somewhere.”

I get a tooth-filled grin at that. “Your race
did
create ours with your most cherished values at the forefront.”

“Great, another mythic with a grudge against her creators. You guys weren't supposed to be anything more than protectors, designed to be wanted by any sorcerer, and look at you all. You evolved, found new ways to spend your time, make money, annoy people…”

“Why don't you…?”

I chuckle. “Oh, I annoy plenty of people, I'm sure.”

“Obviously.” She folds her arms. “But I meant to ask why you don't want a protector?”

I don't look at her for this. “To need a protector implies that you're in some way helpless.” I turn to the next page of my notes. “I'm through being helpless. If I need a dragon to protect me, I'll turn into one.” I shoo her off. “You can go back to your post if you want. Or go get yourself some lunch. There's a decent burger place a little ways off, but don't order the large fries, you'll regret it.”

She doesn't move. “You need to take this seriously. Tricksters may only be an irritation, but they tend to interfere at the worst of times. I would not trust what he—”

I don't look up from my notes. “He's Fae. He can't lie. Still, I'm well aware there are plenty of ways around ‘we'll never darken your doorstep'. First, he said his clan, he said nothing about himself. Next, they'd never darken
my
doorstep, so getting to me through my family and friends is fair game. Also, he could quite literally mean darkening my doorstep instead of the original intent of the saying.” I glance at her. “My mother would tell me stories about the Fae and all their myriad rules before I went to sleep. I'm amazed I didn't have nightmares throughout my childhood.” I shrug. “Well, maybe I did, I don't remember much of my childhood.”

Coda silently nods. “I would take precautions though, my liege.”

I have to chuckle. Tapping the notebooks, I say, “I'm studying magic. Can you think of a better way for me to be prepared?” Though she does have a point. “I know a trickster. I'll ask him what he knows about the methods of the Phouka.”

“I heard. A Coyote. They are fools.”

I nod. “Indeed they are, and proud of it.”

“My apologies, my liege. I misspoke.” I quirk a brow, but she continues. “They are
idiots
. Nothing more than walking embodiments of id, and they all
steal
.” She snorts, a few white sparks issuing from her nose.

“Personal experience?” I fight not to grin. “I don't suppose you took stock tips from one of them?”

“Luckily my broker talked me out of it. I would've lost most of my hoard. Instead, I shorted the stock and made a decent profit. One only needs to remember the tale of the Impecunious to never trust financial advice from a stranger.”

I wince, but that's because I know the guy. Dave, my former boss and current flatmate. Well, all dragons have a title affixed to their names. His mother is apparently the Munificent, his father is the Opulent. Dave, or Davinicus, is called the Impecunious, which means pretty much broke. It's not a term of endearment. He met a Coyote who sweet-talked him into investing his hoard in a junk stock and promptly lost everything but his building. Suffice it to say, he's a little sore about it.